


Remastering

by Kantayra



Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [24]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Fluff, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Character, The Master's 50th Anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: A second: HAPPY 50TH ANNIVERSARY TO THE MASTER!The Master recovers from his battle with Rassilon, with a little (okay, alot) of TLC from the Doctor. Complete with skimpy outfit.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592659
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Remastering

**Author's Note:**

> My second (and final) fic celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Master's first appearance. Simm!Master was my first Master and you never forget your first! I figured I should give the Doctor something on this momentous day, and because I am entirely predictable, I got him that Master he's always wanted. :P Plus, I'd left these two hanging a bit after 'Masterplan', so here they are in the aftermath.

_Sleep._

That was _the_ need. All else was superfluous.

He fought to sink back down into it. Failed. An irritating hand was on his shoulder, stirring him. He tried to slap it away, but couldn’t even raise his arm. Weak. Too weak. _Sleep._

“Come on, now.” The words rasped against his cheek.

Warmth engulfed him. It was nice warmth. Good warmth for sleep. He nosed deeper into it.

“Now, none of that. Just let me…”

The warmth – annoyingly – tugged him upright so that he was sitting propped up against something and not sleeping. Bad warmth! He slid down, trying to evade it.

“Oh, how can you be this difficult when you can’t even move properly?” The warmth sounded exasperated. Good. It deserved it for preventing his sleep!

He flopped ineffectively against the warmth, but it was very stubborn and insisted on setting him upright. He was starting to hate the warmth. The warmth clearly needed to obey him and let him sleep. It could go on being warm and comfortable, though. That part was okay.

“There!” the warmth finally said triumphantly when it had got him lodged in a seated position. “Don’t move.” The warmth wafted away, leaving him feeling suddenly chilled.

He tried to move, purely to spite the vanishing warmth. Unfortunately, he was still too weak. Too bad.

“Here.” The warmth returned, even closer this time, pressed all along his side.

That was better. He curled up into the warmth, let it suffuse him.

“You’re…basically going to kill me for this once you’ve recovered, aren’t you?” The warmth sounded weary.

That felt right. He would’ve nodded if he could’ve.

“I need you to eat something,” the warmth said. “Can you do that for me?”

Something nudged his lips. He found a surprising burst of energy and managed to turn his head away to the side, just a little.

Irritation actively twitched through the air. A twinge of fear, too. He liked the fear. Fear was good. Things should be afraid of him. He was very terrifying, somehow.

“Fine.” The warmth sounded at its wits’ end now. “How about… Will you do it for the sake of conquering the known universe?”

He paused. Conquering the known universe sounded like a nice thing. He might like to do that, after he was done sleeping.

“I can’t believe that worked…” the warmth grumbled under its breath. It pressed something against his lips again. “Open up. Soup is a necessary prerequisite to conquering all universes.”

He hadn’t known that. Maybe he should cooperate? A smell wafted up to his nose. A nice, familiar smell. Suddenly, he remembered the existence of _food_. Food was another need, like sleep. He needed food. And to conquer the universe. He decided to cooperate, even though doing so didn’t feel quite right.

“You are absolutely impossible.” The warmth sounded fond and affectionate and rumbly. It carded soothing fingers through his hair and guided a spoonful of soup into his mouth.

It was good soup. It was the _right_ soup. It was warm and thick and savoury and spiced exactly correctly. He hadn’t realised until that moment that there was only one right soup, and all other soups were wrong. The warmth had given him right-soup. Maybe the warmth could stay, as a pillow at least.

“Of all the uses the Time Lords had for the Matrix, I think retrieving your Nana’s soup recipe was the last thing they’d have ever thought of.” The warmth continued to feed him the right-soup, one spoonful at a time, slowly and patiently.

He could get used to this.

The first few spoonfuls had only filled him with a sense of rightness. As he ate, however, the hunger in him grew. Yes, he needed to eat. Food was not only a need, but the lack thereof was part of why he was so weak. His reluctant cooperation turned to eager participation at the realisation. He really did feel much closer to conquering the universe now than he had before. Who knew?

Nevertheless, he grew weary too quickly. He could only eat so much in one sitting. How tiresome.

“That’s good for now,” the warmth reaffirmed his decision and took the spoon away. “You get some more rest, and we’ll try again later.”

The warmth guided him back down onto the soft pillows. The pillows were still warm from before, but they weren’t the right-warmth. As with soup, there was right-warmth and wrong-warmth. The warmth that had been feeding him was right-warmth; all other warmth was wrong-warmth.

The right-warmth tried to move away to allow him to sleep, but he managed to fight it just a little: a whimper of complaint, a squirming closer, tremulous fingers trying to pull the right-warmth towards him.

The right-warmth paused, sighed, and then moved to lie down next to him. “You promise not to seek revenge on me for this later?” it asked warily and wrapped long, warm appendages all around him.

He didn’t promise, because revenge also sounded quite nice.

Instead, he snuggled into the right-warmth. As sleep overcame him, he realised that this was a need, too. A need he’d been missing. The need had a name: _Mate._

***

_Sleep. Food. Mate._

He awoke with just enough of the former to address the latter two. And, in fact, the second was the one he craved the most at the moment. He wriggled against the third, until his nice warm mate stirred against him.

“Hungry already?” His mate’s voice was groggy.

He still didn’t have the energy to answer. Luckily, his mate wasn’t entirely useless. His mate slithered out from under him – cold: do not want! – but returned quickly. This time he let his mate seat him up against the headboard without complaint. His was feeling more in possession of his faculties now. Not right yet, not by a long shot, but he understood now that he was in a bed, and it was okay to cooperate with his mate (although _only_ his mate) as long as his mate was doing the things that he wanted.

He was able to eat much more now, nearly faster than his mate could feed him. He finished one whole bowl of his old Nana’s soup and started on a second. He began to become aware of the fact that perhaps he shouldn’t be letting his mate feed him like this, like he was an invalid. He wasn’t an invalid; he was going to conquer the universe. It was very important that his mate understood this.

His mate put aside the remaining soup when he was done and slid back into bed without need for prodding this time. Good. His mate understood the importance of attending to his needs.

He nestled into his mate’s warmth again as they settled side-by-side. It felt right, but he also felt that it was very important that he articulate this fundamental law of their existence. His voice felt cracked and unused, but he still managed a weak, “’m Master, you obey,” before mumbling off.

His mate pressed a kiss against the Master’s forehead and said, fondly, “I know. _Believe_ me.”

Good. Sleep time, then.

***

His mate yelped and flailed awake when the Master jabbed him hard in the ribs with one finger.

“What? What? What?”

His mate blinked around confused. The Master had been too tired before to open his eyes much to look at his mate. Now he looked. His was a bony mate, and his mate’s limbs seemed to be tied in knots within the blankets. His mate had stupid hair that stuck up at stupid angles. He looked dazed and dumb and startled. He also had many tasty freckles. And a super skinny arse.

The Master was starting to feel much better on the sleep front. He still had definite needs on the food front. And, on the mate front, his interests were starting to be piqued.

“Feed me,” the Master ordered. Best to test out whether his mate understood the proper command structure between them.

His stupid-bony-tasty-skinny-arsed mate gave him an exasperated look. Then, he tossed aside the blankets somewhat petulantly and stalked over to the adjoining kitchenette and proceeded to warm a truly colossal pot of soup. His mate was naked, and the Master watched the movement of that super-skinny arse with some interest. Especially when his mate grabbed an apron with big pink frills along the sides and tied it firmly about his waist. Those pink frills framed that super-skinny arse in a rather aesthetically pleasing way, the Master thought.

“I see we’ve remembered how to be bossy and demanding again,” his mate said with a yawn as the soup heated.

“I ever forgot?”

“And smart-mouthed.” His mate smiled a bit giddily, like he’d missed that bit.

The Master’s chest did a stupid thing, like his hearts were trying to punch each other. His dick also did a stupid thing, where it suddenly became exceedingly engrossed in the geometric calculations around whether it could fit inside that super-skinny arse. Perhaps that arse was bigger on the inside? The Master was still too weak to be this stupid.

“Your majesty’s soup.”

His mate sat on the edge of the bed and let the Master get himself up this time. Oh dear, his mate was _cheeky_. He’d have to remedy that. The mischievous light in his mate’s eyes as he fed the Master his first spoonful of soup led the Master to believe that the cheekiness might, in fact, be an ongoing issue. Fixing it might be a long-term project, even.

When his mate pulled the spoon away this time, the tip of his thumb brushed against the edge of the Master’s lips, ostensibly to wipe them clean. The way his mate waggled his eyebrows, though, indicated that it was actually more cheekiness.

Maybe the cheekiness had its advantages, after all. Maybe the Master should let his mate keep the cheekiness. Maybe the Master _liked_ the cheekiness.

The Master ate his soup with ever-increasing hunger, not only for more food but also for the coy touches his mate bestowed upon him. Finally, when one finger strayed too teasingly for too long, the Master lashed out, snapped at it and slurped it into his mouth as eagerly as he did the soup.

His mate’s eyes glazed over, and a pathetic little whimpering sound issued from his throat. That was a good sound. His mate should make that sound often, while the Master had his tongue down his mate’s throat and his cock buried deep in his mate’s super-skinny arse. That was the proper order of the universe.

He tried to yank his mate down on top of him, but he was still so weak that he didn’t even succeed in spilling the soup. Either that, or his mate was extraordinarily talented at balancing wildly in precarious positions. Enough of the Master’s memories were nudging back to life now that he suspected it was the latter.

His mate set aside the soup in response and pressed him back down into the mattress, straddling himself on hands and knees over the Master, the frills of his pink apron dangling down and teasing the Master. The Master might not have had the strength to properly wrestle with his mate yet, but at least he had enough to reach up with both hands and sink his fingers into the firm flesh of his mate’s tight arse cheeks. They felt just as ripe as they looked.

“Now, now,” his mate chided, “enough of that. You’re in no fit condition to—” His mate let out a truly delightful yelp when one of the Master’s fingers delved sneakily into his cleft and tested out the dimensional transcendentalism of his arse hole.

“Just as I thought.” The Master grinned up at him unrepentantly. “Bigger on the inside.”

His mate glared at him and then correctly forgot entirely about his objections to vigorous sexual activity while the Master was still so weak. He kissed the Master hot and hard and wet, his tongue lapping at the Master’s mouth as if the Master were as delicious as right-soup. His body ground down into the Master’s, and even through the cloth of his frilly apron, the Master could feel how hard and eager (and scrawny) his mate was.

The Master delighted in the taste and feel of mate for one minute, but then he found himself becoming overwhelmed. His mate had one hand on his cheek and another in his hair and another over one of his hearts and another stroking his throat and yet another teasing his nipple and another teasing his chest hairs and a seventh dipping into his navel and a last trailing lightly up and down his cock. His mate was an octopus, it seemed, or else the Master was still too slow to process all the sensations in a proper linear temporal schema. His mate also had at least a dozen lanky legs, all slung about the Master’s torso in various compromising positions. The Master really had no hope of keeping up with a mate as squirmy and excited as this.

He let out a little grunt of disapproval.

“Right, right, sorry.” His mate froze and pulled back, breathing out hot pants against the Master’s lips. It seemed that, even when the Master was unable to reciprocate, his mate was still able writhe himself into a breathless state all on his own. That was another point in his mate’s favour; the Master was beginning to think he had excellent taste. “We don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

“Don’t,” the Master managed to hiss out in warning, even though he was feeling exceptionally weary otherwise, “you _dare_ stop!”

His mate let out a gasping laugh, chest still heaving. “Of course not,” he agreed, with even more cheekiness than before. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. We’ll just keep it quick and light for now. You just lie back”—his mate leaned in and pressed a deep, unhurried, liquid kiss across the Master’s lips that left him whimpering—“and recoup. When you think about it, it’s therapeutic, this is.”

His mate winked down at him once and then dropped down the Master’s body before the Master could catch him. Slippery as an Arcalian salmon, was his mate.

The Master would’ve protested, but at that moment his mate wrapped that slippery tongue around the head of the Master’s cock and slurped. Loudly. The Master groaned and fell back onto the pillows. His whole body shivered when his mate lapped up and down his length, as if only the Master’s taste could cure the unquenchable thirst within him. It was wonderful and perfect and the Master _needed_ to see him.

With what little strength he had left, the Master managed to prop his neck up against the headboard so that he could look down at the erotic sight in his lap. His mate had those cheeky lips wrapped around the head on the Master’s cock, his one hand wrapped around the base so that the Master’s entire length was encased in warmth. His mate was still wearing that frilly pink apron, but his perky, perfect arse was sticking right up into the air between the ruffles, waggling enticingly above where his mate had his head down in the Master’s lap. His mate’s lips jerked erratically, and the Master realised that his mate was jacking himself off while he sucked the Master down, as if he liked nothing better in all the universe.

The Master didn’t have the stamina for such a sight.

He came quickly, with a piteous little whimper. Probably not more than a dribble came out, but his mate lavished his tongue all around the Master’s tip anyway, savouring every last drop. His mate’s hips squirmed frantically above his steadily pumping fist, and then he let out a satisfied cry as well and finally fell, still and limp, spilled all over the Master’s thighs like a puddle.

The Master breathed slowly once, twice. He was absolutely exhausted, even from that brief orgasm. He couldn’t even look as he felt his mate crawl back up his body and nestle beside him.

“There!” His mate pressed a proud kiss to the very tip of the Master’s nose. “I kissed it all better.”

“You,” the Master said sleepily as unconsciousness flooded through him once more, “are a _dreadful_ doctor.”

More of his universe clicked back into place with those words. _Right_.

***

The Master awoke to find his stupid mate of a Doctor humming in the kitchen. The Doctor was still wearing that ridiculous apron. He seemed to be making toast.

The Master found it somewhat encouraging that each time he awakened he felt less sleepy than the previous time. He was still ravenous, which was also a good sign. And it took him no time at all to develop a nice, healthy erection at the sight of the Doctor, oblivious and innocent and ripe for the plucking, with his arse hanging out like that. The Master was definitely on the mend.

He closed his eyes again and shifted slightly onto his side, settling his limbs into a better position before the Doctor could see he was awake.

The Doctor hummed to himself as he approached the bed, still be-aproned, a plate full of toast in one hand and some book open in the other. He was wearing those stupid glasses of his and seemed to be poring over whatever he was reading, so that he didn’t notice the Master was awake until it was too late.

The Master pounced, the Doctor yelped, and the book and glasses went flying.

Victoriously, the Master curled around his stolen plate of toast and devoured it hungrily.

“That was my breakfast!” the Doctor protested.

The Master ignored him, stuffing the last triangle into his mouth with a satisfied grin, and then leaning over to lick the plate clean of crumbs.

“Right, then. I’ll just go make you some more then, shall I?”

“And bacon,” the Master ordered.

The Doctor sighed.

“Eggs…”

“I’ll just will an entire buffet into existence,” the Doctor said wearily. “It’s easier.”

The Master spent the better part of the morning sating his suddenly raging appetite. Occasionally, he even graciously offered the Doctor a nibble or two. The Doctor had slumped back against the headboard and was watching him eat with the faintest of smiles at the corners of his lips, fond and indulgent.

When the Master finally finished the last of the bacon with a contented flourish, the Doctor perked up, inching closer so that they were hip to hip, the ruffles of the Doctor’s apron tickling the Master’s side.

“This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen you wear,” the Master informed the Doctor. “And that’s saying something.”

The Doctor grinned a knowing, cheeky grin. “But you like it, don’t you?”

The Master grunted and promptly ripped it right off the Doctor. He threw it to one side, pink frills flying everywhere, and finally properly tackled his Doctor down onto the bed.

“You actually _ambushed_ me!” the Doctor accused delightedly.

The Master bit him hard on the collarbone, marking territory that had gone unmarked for far too long.

The Doctor squirmed beneath him, but after all that food, the Master found that he finally had the strength to pin the Doctor properly in his place. He rubbed his cock teasingly against the bony jut of the Doctor’s hipbone, forcing the Doctor’s thighs down and open, and revelling in every last ineffective thrust the Doctor tried to make up against him, as if the Doctor were begging for the friction that the Master ruthlessly denied him.

“Admit it,” the Master demanded, “you liked me better when I was pliant and malleable, and you could do whatever you liked with me.” He licked a hungry stripe up the Doctor’s cheek, but pulled away just out of range when the Doctor tried to capture the Master’s mouth with his own.

“No,” the Doctor corrected, “I like you much better when you’re a pain in my arse. Which, might I suggest, you seriously consider becoming sometime in the foreseeable future?”

The Master practically purred at the suggestion, eyes squeezing shut tight. As he’d known, even at his weakest, he didn’t like taking orders, but when his mate wanted the same things that he did, that was indeed very much all right. “I am going to ruin you,” he promised sweetly, whispering right against the Doctor’s earlobe as he sank cock-first into the Doctor’s hot, welcoming arse, which really did expand to accommodate him just as if it were truly dimensionally transcendental.

The Doctor wriggled against him, demanding more, refusing to be still or cowed or obedient in the slightest. Somehow, he got his legs around the Master’s waist and yanked him in harder and deeper.

“And then,” the Master hissed against the Doctor’s cheek, scrapping their stubble back against each other’s in a rasp that was borderline painful, “I am going to ruin the universe.” He thrust hard up inside the Doctor, causing the Doctor’s muscles to spasm instinctively around him at the rough intrusion.

“You’re going to try,” the Doctor shot back, eyes flashing defiantly and clutching the Master’s face tight between his palms, “and I’m going to stop you.” He bruised their mouths together in a desperate, devouring kiss.

The Master groaned into it and ploughed into the Doctor’s tight arse again and again, savouring the feeling of being alive again and strong and back at the top of the world.

Their bodies turned frantic and arrhythmic, pulsing and clawing and scraping together, half fighting against each other and half working towards their mutual satisfaction. The Master nearly lost himself in the raw tidal pull of the Doctor’s body and mind, the deep dark depths of a mate so perfectly suited to challenge him at every turn.

For all that they were ideally matched, though, the Doctor had been suffering the longest.

“How many long hours,” the Master taunted him, as they vied together for pleasure and control and victory, “did you wait for me to awake?”

“Too many,” the Doctor whimpered, eyes going dark and helpless. He always looked so beautiful when he was helpless in the Master’s clutches.

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” the Master accused, and drove into him harder. “Me, trapped, kept, helpless, yours.”

“No more than you’ve ever wanted that of me,” the Doctor retorted.

The Master’s eyes widened because suddenly he understood. All these years – eons, now – and finally it all made sense. Because, yes, of course he wanted to capture and ensnare and own the Doctor, defeat him once and for all and dance upon his grave. But not _really_. What he really wanted, more than anything, was to do all those things against the Doctor, but instead have the Doctor _fight back_. Prove to himself and the Master and all the universe that he was the same, they were the same: there was another just like the Master out there, and no matter what the Master did, the game would never end. There would always be that equal out there, never fully trapped, never fully kept, never fully helpless, and therefore _his_ to play with forever and ever.

“I understand,” the Master said with a laugh, and buried himself deep inside the love of lives, and practically cried for joy. “Don’t worry. It will never end. I’ll never leave you. I will always come back for more. It will be like this, until time itself ceases to be, and long after.”

The Doctor came apart beneath him, his own tears wet and salty against the Master’s cheeks, his body shaking with both fear and ecstasy. Always the best combination.

The Master came with him, pulsing into the Doctor’s mind and body repeatedly, with each wave of pleasure ebbing just a little more. His own orgasm was smoother, calmer, and he came almost gently, as if all was finally right with his universe. He even spared an affectionate nuzzle for his Doctor, who was still clinging to him raggedly, still drawn out from his near loss.

He could comfort the Doctor, of course, reassure him with pretty words and sweet kisses. Or, even better, he could say:

“I am going to burn _everything_ ,” he promised. “I will be ruthless and remorseless, and I will never stop burning.” He breathed the last against the Doctor’s still gasping lips. “And only you can stop me.”

Then he darted back and away, with a newfound skip in his step, and dashed from the bedroom with a delicious new plan to torment and befuddle the Doctor fresh in his mind.

A sudden thought slowed him, stopped him, and he leaned back through the bedroom door. “Oh,” he said, “and put the apron back on.”

The Doctor’s eyes lit up with joy, and he scrambled chaotic limbs free of the blankets.

“Come and get it!” The Master laughed with a passing clang of his knuckles against the soup pot, and he ran off to wreak beautiful destruction upon the universe at large, the Doctor hot and thwarting on his heels.


End file.
